Like a lot of kids in the 70s, I spent my share of time baking in the sun, slathered in baby oil. So, I was shocked, but not surprised, to be diagnosed with skin cancer a couple months ago. What on the surface looked like a tiny pimple, turned out to be pretty invasive squamous cell cancer underneath. The good news is that I’m fine and the cancer is gone. However, the surgeon had to cut a quarter sized hole under my nose and then repair it with skin pulled from my cheek. The wound has healed for the most part and I’ve grown used to the triangular scar that runs up my laugh line from the side of my mouth, across under my nose and back down.
It’s not lost on me that my face is now “patched”. This hit me as I first removed the bandage and saw the black running stitch that held my face together. Although the stitches are long gone, I do associate the scar with mending. I run my fingers over the raised edge and marvel at how the skin heals. I think about how much my body has done all these years. Rather than fret about the scar, I actually kind of like it. It represents use to me, aging but in a productive, positive way. I’m better for it.
I’m not damaged, I’m upcycled.
